by Peter Watt
‘I can’t swim,’ James gasped.
‘I can,’ Samuel spluttered, grateful he had learned when he was in the colony of New South Wales.
The weight of their shoes and jackets was dragging them beneath the surface, so Samuel quickly kicked off his shoes and struggled out of his jacket. He required all his strength to keep James afloat and when Samuel glanced up at the wharf he could see the faces of the police above peering down at them.
‘You men, come to the shore immediately,’ the sergeant yelled. ‘You are to be arrested.’
‘Like hell,’ Samuel muttered to James, who bobbed in the water while Samuel held him as best as he could with one arm. Drowning was fast becoming a possibility in the cold, filthy waters.
‘We are going to swim around the bow of the ship to the other side where they cannot see us,’ Samuel said in desperation. He knew they could not stay in the water for long, especially as night was beginning to fall, and if they did not drown they would be captured. It appeared that Charles had finally won. Samuel’s greatest regret now was that Ian would suffer for his foolish desire to return to England. The situation was hopeless, but Samuel began swimming anyway, dragging James with him.
Somehow he was able to get them both to the far side of the hulking ship where they were hidden from the shore. But he could not find anything to hold on to, and he knew his strength was rapidly fading in the icy waters.
‘I’ll get you in,’ came a voice from behind, and in the dim light Samuel could just make out a small rowboat with Kevin at the oars. Relief flowed through him. ‘Just keep to the shadow of the ship.’
Samuel dragged James with him to the shadow, out of sight of the police on the shore. Kevin reached down and gripped James by the collar of his shirt as Samuel helped push him up and over the side of the boat. James struggled into the small craft, coughing up water. Using the last of his diminishing strength to aid him, Samuel dragged himself into the boat and slumped down beside James.
From the shore they could hear the shouts of the police trying to catch sight of them.
‘Thank you,’ Samuel finally gasped. ‘I thought that we would drown. How is it that you became our guardian angel?’
‘I was at the docks, and as soon as I saw what was happening with the peelers after you, I guessed you were in trouble. When I saw you jump into the water I ran to fetch a rowboat nearby, belongs to a friend of mine. I doubt you will be able to return to the wharf to board your ship, but all is not lost, boyos. I think I can still get you a berth. I am going to row out into the channel where the lights from the shore do not reach and take you to an iron ship that is ready to up anchor. Do you still have money?’
Samuel touched his money belt. His cash would be a bit soggy but it was still currency of the realm. ‘I do,’ he replied, and Kevin set out with a strong stroke, rowing the boat towards a well-lit freighter raising steam.
Samuel started to feel the night air chill his sodden clothes and beside him he could feel James shivering. After fifteen minutes they reached the side of the vessel, just as the anchors were rattling up the ship’s side. Kevin called out and a rope ladder was thrown to the small boat below. He told the faces above that he needed to speak with the ship’s captain about a couple of unexpected passengers prepared to pay well for a berth.
‘I know the captain,’ Kevin said, ‘and if you mention my name while producing a generous amount of English pounds, I am sure he will find a passage for you both.’ With that, Kevin extended his hand.
Samuel took it and hoped his firm grip conveyed his gratitude. ‘We cannot thank you enough. I hope that we may meet again under better circumstances,’ he said, releasing Kevin’s hand and grasping the rope ladder.
Both he and James were able to clamber to the ship’s deck, where they were met by a bearded sailor who looked more like a pirate. Nevertheless he identified himself as the ship’s captain and said he had come down from the bridge to find out why his ship was being hailed by a man in a rowboat.
‘Hope you got a bit of money to pay your fare,’ he said.
‘We do. Mr Kevin Jones highly recommended your ship,’ Samuel said. ‘Where is this ship bound?’
‘First stop, Cape Town, and then the colony of West Australia,’ the captain replied. ‘Afterwards we steam to New South Wales to deliver our cargo. Have you ever been to the Australian colonies?’
Samuel just grinned.
The ship slid into the running waters of the channel, tooting its horn to indicate that it was departing on a long sea voyage, and leaving Ewen Owens on the wharf using language not acceptable in polite company.
Part Three
A Tale of Two Cities: Delhi and Lucknow
Twenty-six
Alice stood on the stony ridge amongst the small encampment of army tents wearing a ragged dress stained with dried blood. The air was still filled with the stench of rotting bodies, but she barely noticed these days. If it was not raining, it was hot and humid, and the ground was a world of sticky, stinking mud.
As she stood gazing at the relief column approaching from the north, Alice saw horses pulling artillery twenty-four-pounder guns along a rutted track towards their camp. She had grown to know one artillery gun from another and had often stood beside her husband treating the results of their devastating cannonballs. Even so, it was cholera that remained the gravest threat due to the unsanitary conditions. Peter had insisted that water brought up from the stream be boiled before consumption, but Alice spent much of her time visiting those sick soldiers who had ignored her husband’s advice.
Alice knew that these guns and the men marching beside them were coming to their aid. A frontal infantry assault on the impressive city walls was akin to suicide – the defenders outnumbered them and were well armed – but a combined infantry and artillery attack could make a breakthrough.
The mutineers had continued their forays against the British force on the ridge, but each attack had been repulsed by the mixed force of British soldiers and loyal Indian troops. Scott had informed Peter and Alice that the mutineers were being reinforced with what were known as Moslem mujahidin, holy warriors, and intelligence sources indicated that Delhi was to be established as a major centre in a resurrected Moghul empire.
‘Impressive, aren’t they?’ Scott said, striding towards Alice. ‘We now have six twenty-four-pounders, eight eighteen-pounder long guns, six eight-inch howitzers, and four ten-inch mortars. Enough artillery to concentrate on breaching the city walls. Alas, it will be the gunners, sappers and infantry who will lead the eventual attack on the town, but my squadron will follow up once they are inside the walls.’
Just then the explosive blast of British guns opened fire from the southern edge of the ridge.
‘Counter battery fire,’ Scott said. ‘Our gunners are neutralising the closest enemy guns in one of the bastions outside the eastern city walls. We want the damned rascals to think that will be the direction of our eventual main assault.’
Suddenly, Alice doubled over and vomited, causing Scott to leap forward to her. She straightened up and wiped her mouth with the back of her tattered sleeve.
‘Are you ill?’ Scott asked, and his first thought was that he was seeing the onset of cholera.
‘If being with child is an illness, then you could say so,’ Alice said with a weak smile.
Startled, Scott could only blink his surprise. ‘Does my brother know?’ he asked awkwardly.
‘Peter is aware of my condition,’ Alice answered and Scott frowned.
‘This is not the place for a woman who is with child,’ he chided. ‘As a medical man, my brother should know that.’
‘It is a bit late now,’ Alice smiled. ‘Besides, for centuries women have borne children in times of war. Why should I be any different?’
‘Well, let me extend my congratulations then,’ Scott said gruffly. ‘Let us pray that the birth comes w
hen we are back in England.’
England, Alice thought. England was just a vague memory now, and this world of war was all she knew with its pestilence, death and dying.
Scott made his way back to HQ for a briefing, leaving Alice alone to listen to the guns roar and watch the smoke rise in the distance as the cannonballs found their mark. She was relieved that she could not hear the screaming of the men they hit – even if they were the enemy – and returned to her tent for a short nap before she joined Peter in his makeshift surgery. There were bandages to be boiled and rolled, surgical instruments to sharpen. There was a kind of simplicity to her life now, but she also thought about her pregnancy with great fear. Under these terrible circumstances, would she be able to carry the life within her to term?
*
Lucknow was now the objective of Havelock’s small mixed force of British and Indian troops. First, however, the city of Cawnpore had to be taken from the rebels and the days of fighting in the surrounding countryside had taken a great toll on the Queen’s soldiers. Bursting artillery fire, volleys of musketry and terrible bayonet charges under a fierce Indian sun had taken their share of lives in Ian’s company at the walls of Cawnpore. But they had taken the city.
The British forces bivouacked on the Indian plain and sentries were posted. Ian’s batman assisted him in setting up his tent in the meagre shade of some scrubby trees.
‘I have the list of men reporting sick,’ Conan said, passing Ian the company roll book.
‘Cholera?’ Ian asked, and Conan nodded. ‘That bloody disease is taking a greater toll on our ranks than the mutineers,’ Ian growled.
‘The lads are still in good spirits,’ Conan said. ‘They trust you.’
‘I fear that my decisions will one day cost them their lives,’ Ian quietly admitted.
‘They all took the Queen’s shilling knowing that a soldier’s life means the risk of being killed one day,’ Conan replied.
Ian shrugged. How many times in the bloody hand-to-hand fighting for Cawnpore had he come close to death? He was fortunate that at night in his tent no one witnessed the feverish nightmares; the twitching, crying and sweating. These were the unseen wounds of a soldier exposed to combat.
Colour Sergeant Paddy Leslie approached, saluted and stood to attention.
‘At ease, Colour Sergeant,’ Ian said, returning the salute. ‘You wish to speak to me?’
‘Yes, sah,’ Leslie said, glancing at Conan. ‘It is a private matter.’
‘I need to check on the lads settling in for the night,’ Conan said and walked off.
‘What is it?’ Ian asked.
‘It’s about Sergeant Williams, sah. He has assaulted one of his men and is drunk in his tent.’
Ian was startled by the colour sergeant’s revelation. He had always observed Owen’s behaviour as a senior non-commissioned officer to be in line with the highest traditions of the service. He made his way to Owen’s tent and found his friend sitting on an ammunition box, a bottle of gin in his hand. Owen looked at Ian through bleary eyes and remained sitting.
‘Stand up, Sergeant Williams,’ Ian barked.
Owen rose unsteadily to his feet in a semblance of attention, still holding the half-empty bottle of spirits. ‘What is this that I hear of you assaulting one of the lads?’
‘Dunno what you mean,’ Owen slurred.
‘Don’t know what you mean, sir,’ Ian said.
‘Sir,’ Owen added reluctantly. ‘If that is what I should call you. I know all about you, sir. I know who you really are.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Ian frowned.
‘Molly told me that your real name is Ian Steele and that you were once a colonial blacksmith. Between you and Curry, I reckon you have been cheating me on the loot. All you colonials are a thieving lot.’
Ian was shocked by Owen’s revelation. How had Molly learned his secret? The suspicion that Conan must have told her crept into his thoughts. Who else knew? He could see there was a dramatic change in Owen, and it shocked him, but he did not understand what had caused it. It was as if he had a mental sickness – like those Ian had seen driven mad by the horrors of war.
‘You well know that everything has been equally divided,’ Ian said.
‘What about the jewels you took when we were in the Crimea? You didn’t share those with me and my brother.’
Ian acknowledged that he was right, but the Williams brothers had found their own small fortune in the Russian baggage train they had looted.
‘We all collected valuables in the Crimea,’ said Ian calmly. ‘We have all contributed on an equal basis since then.’
‘I don’t believe you . . . sir,’ Owen said, swaying on his feet. ‘You and that colonial Paddy are working together against me. But it don’t matter, because I know this war will get me killed anyway.’
‘You have been reported for assaulting a soldier and here I find you drunk. No matter the circumstances of our friendship, I am obliged to have you punished in order to maintain discipline in the company,’ Ian said.
‘What are you going to do with me?’ Owen asked.
‘I am forced to have you stripped of your rank,’ Ian said sadly. ‘You have to get a grip, Owen, or you will get yourself killed. You will surrender that gin bottle to me now, and you will also remain in your quarters until you sober up.’
Owen hesitated but passed the bottle to Ian, who turned on his heel and stepped outside the tent. Colour Sergeant Leslie was hovering nearby.
‘Make sure Private Williams remains in his tent until you deem him sober enough to join the ranks, Colour Sergeant,’ Ian said, emptying the remaining gin on the dry soil of the Indian plain.
Ian found Conan supervising the cleaning of regimental kit and gestured him to follow a short distance away.
‘You saw Owen?’ Conan asked quietly.
‘I am afraid something has happened to Owen,’ Ian said worriedly, and quickly described to Conan the scene he had just witnessed. ‘It is possible that the fighting has unnerved him. I have stripped him of his sergeant’s rank rather than see him flogged before the regiment on a punishment parade.’
‘From what the lads told me, Owen punched a soldier to get hold of the bottle of grog,’ Conan said. ‘Maybe the sun has got to him. A few of the lads have told me that they see Owen talking to himself – or to people he says are talking to him in his head.
‘I think the fighting and killing has got to him. Owen was never born to be a soldier. I know that because I convinced him to join up. At the time I thought we had little choice if we wanted to stay out of the hands of the peelers back in London. I think Owen resents me for making that decision.’
‘How does he know my real identity?’ Ian asked, staring directly into Conan’s face and watching as he paled.
‘I told Molly,’ Conan said, stricken that he had broken his mate’s confidence. ‘She swore she would tell no one.’
‘Well, it seems she told her brother. When I meet the Queen at a tea party, I may as well tell her I am an imposter, too. Although I am sure she already knows.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Conan said, truly repentant. ‘Molly must have thought that as our friend, Owen already knew. I am sure both she and Owen will keep their mouths shut.’
‘I hope you are right because Owen thinks that you and I are in a conspiracy to take his share of the war booty,’ Ian said. ‘Keep a close eye on him. He told me he thinks he will be killed in this campaign, and expressing such thoughts is likely to make him careless in what he tells people. He may think he has nothing to lose.’
‘I’ll kill him myself if he opens his mouth about who you really are,’ Conan growled.
Conan stepped back, saluted and marched away, leaving Ian to ponder how hard it was becoming to remain Captain Samuel Forbes when so many people knew the truth.
*
Ch
arles Forbes reluctantly paid out the last of the commission to Charles Field.
‘I am sorry that you have spent so much on this search for your brother,’ Field said as the pound notes were placed on his desk. ‘He has proven to be a very resourceful man.’
‘Do you know where the ship he escaped on was bound?’ Charles asked.
‘I was informed that the ship was carrying a supply of iron to South Africa, and its final cargo to the colony of New South Wales. From there I presume that your brother and his friend will take a ship across the Pacific to the United States.’
‘New South Wales, you say,’ Charles mused with a flicker of hope. New South Wales was where his uncle, Sir George Forbes, had a sheep property. Surely Samuel would not be able to resist visiting the man who was his real father.
Charles leaned back in his chair. ‘Tell me, Mr Field, do you have contacts in the colonies?’
Field had finished counting the money and looked with surprise at his client. ‘A detective I once worked with migrated to Sydney Town,’ he replied. ‘What do you have in mind?’
Charles removed a wad of currency from his pocket, peeled off some notes and placed them on the desk in front of Field.
‘If you could get an urgent letter to your former colleague I am sure our business arrangement will continue, Mr Field,’ Charles said, his determination to unmask the conspiracy stronger than ever. ‘If your agent in the colony can prove that Samuel is actually in New South Wales, then that would mean the man serving in the regiment is an imposter.’
‘The Australian colonies are a long way from here,’ Field said.
‘I have the exact details of where my brother is likely to be found. You know I am prepared to be generous and this is my advance on our venture.’
Field stared for a short moment at the money on his desk, then reached for it.
‘I will endeavour to contact my man in the colony,’ he said. ‘But I do not promise anything.’